


Too Intimate

by writingaddictsanonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feelings, Happy Ending, M/M, Not A Lot Of Plot, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Pining Derek, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sad Derek, Stiles is distant, because what other endings are there, cliche parts, who doesn't love a good cliche am I right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:52:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingaddictsanonymous/pseuds/writingaddictsanonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is distant, Derek is emotional, and they have a lot of sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Intimate

If you asked Derek to tell you how long he and Stiles had been ‘a thing’, he wouldn’t have an answer. He wouldn’t have an answer because he couldn’t even tell you what this thing was. Stiles was distant, aloof. He’d call Derek when he was bored, needed to work off stress, or just wanted a warm body for the night.

For the first couple of months, Derek had been pretty much okay with it. He liked sex, and he liked it with Stiles, and it was nice, sometimes, not having to be emotional with someone. But there was a lot missing after a while, and Derek started to want more, which he knew was just going to shove them into a downward spiral. Whenever they slept together now, if it was at night, Stiles would be out like a light not long afterward. He’d always been like that. He could fall asleep anywhere. But Derek would lay there, tossing and turning or just laying flat on his back and looking up at the ceiling.

Stiles never talked all that much. Not conversationally, at least. He didn’t ask how Derek’s day was, wouldn’t really talk at all until they were both half naked. Sometimes, Derek thought, Stiles wasn’t even noticing when he’d talk.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he’d say breathlessly, hands sliding down Derek’s chest to start working open the fastenings of his pants. Derek never really spoke back. He’d nod a little bit, or make a little sound to let him know he’d been heard.

It would be minutes later, when Stiles had gotten them both out of their clothes, that Derek would finally just let go, let Stiles make him feel good and pretend he was anyone else, because suddenly, the idea of having Stiles– beautiful, distant, emotionally-inaccessible Stiles– wrapped around him just made him want to vomit. Or cry. Or something else equally embarrassing that would mean he’d never have a very naked Stiles pressed up against his body. Sex with Stiles was rough, all-consuming, in a way that Stiles himself so wasn’t. He moved Derek where he wanted him, left bite marks or light bruises on his skin. Most of the time, Stiles made sure they weren’t facing one another, and Derek knew why. It was easier not to have feelings that way, and Derek was thankful for that, especially when Stiles pressed his chest to Derek’s back, sucked marks into his neck or bit at his ears.

He’d praise Derek like that, whisper things like, “So good,” or, “Love seeing you like this,” and some part of Derek wished there weren’t so many words in that sentence, wished he’d say something emotional in any way to him. They’d lay, spent, on top of one another, wrapped up in each other’s bodies, only until Stiles pulled away, leaving Derek cold and feeling lonely, even if Stiles was right on the other side of the bed. Derek had never tried to move closer; he didn’t want Stiles to take it any certain way, or get spooked and leave, never to be seen again.

And it wasn’t like it was just in the bedroom. They’d run into one another at a club, which Derek had gone to with Boyd holding a goal of finding someone to take his mind off of Stiles. But ever since Scott and Isaac had started dating, it made it a lot easier to end up in the same space at the same time. And Boyd, thinking he’d been doing a good thing, had invited Isaac. Who’d called Scott, who’d texted Stiles. Ten minutes after running into one another, Stiles was grinding against Derek in the grimy bathroom at the back of the club. Five minutes after that, Stiles had both of their pants tugged open, his long fingers wrapped around both of their cocks as he pressed feverish, harsh kisses to Derek’s neck. He bit at his skin, scraped the nails of his free hand up under Derek’s shirt, and Derek reciprocated what he could, but couldn’t bring himself to be quite as into it as Stiles.

They never kissed on the lips. “Too intimate,” Stiles had whispered the first time as he mouthed at Derek’s ear, his jaw, his throat. Derek hadn’t questioned it, just rocked his hips up against Stiles’ thigh and pulled his shirt slowly over his head, fingertips tracing his back slowly.

Months later, however– and Derek hated himself for it– he’d developed feelings. And Stiles didn’t have feelings for him, and that was– that was fine, he didn’t care. That’s what he told himself, at least. He felt like the actor who tried out for the starring role and ended up with a supporting one. And not even as a secondary character. There were times that Derek wouldn’t answer the phone. Or texts. He’d just let Stiles find another outlet those days. Somehow, it made him feel like he actually had control over what was going on. Like he could determine what their dynamic was. It was all a lie, though, and that was made obvious when he finally broke and answered the phone.

Sometimes, when he’d get to Stiles’ apartment or Stiles would get to Derek’s, they would drink. They would drink to get drunk. The two of them would finish a bottle or even two of wine, or take a few shots of something harder, and have even rougher sex than usual. Derek would wake up to sun shining through his curtains, hungover, lonely, and sore, and he’d call in sick to avoid getting out of bed. He didn’t talk about it with anyone; they were all friends, although Stiles didn’t really seem to want to be around anyone but Scott. Derek didn’t tell Boyd, or Erica, and definitely not Isaac. Because Isaac would tell Scott, who would tell Stiles, and then he’d be figuratively fucked to go along with his literal fucking. And Derek just wanted Stiles to talk to him, to tell him how he felt about something. Derek wanted him to get upset, or angry, or something that would let Derek know that he was human and could feel.

Seven months, they’d been doing this shit. Seven months, Derek had felt like he couldn’t sleep with anyone else or go on a date. Because he was– something, of some sort, with Stiles. And he wasn’t an unfaithful man. A stupid man, maybe. An idiot for getting involved with someone as uncaring as Stiles. And of course, today was just one of those days. The text had come in around six.

Spend the night at my place.

Also known as ‘make sure you bring condoms’.

Give me half an hour.

To Stiles, that probably meant time to shower and drive over. To Derek, it was time to prepare himself. By the time he got to Stiles’ building, he was half sure he was having heart palpitations and half sure he couldn’t handle this anymore. The third floor walkup gave him a little bit more opportunity to calm down, and by the time he was knocking on the heavy wooden door, he felt relatively calm. Stiles opened the door, and Derek wanted to slap the easy little smirk right off of his face. He didn’t say anything as he stepped back to let him in. Normally, he waited until they were in the bedroom to start anything, but as soon as the door was closed, Stiles was pressing against him, pulling his shirt up as he pressed his lips to the back of Derek’s neck.

As Stiles’ warm hands shoved Derek’s shirt up, Derek leaned back into him. But before it could come completely off, Derek stopped him, shaking his head.

“Stop,” he said softly, taking hold of his wrists. Stiles stilled immediately, letting Derek’s shirt fall.

“What’s wrong?” he asked over his shoulder.

Slowly, Derek pulled away, and Stiles let him go, arms falling to his sides. Derek turned back around slowly, arms crossing over his chest. He refused to make eye contact with Stiles, just stared down at their feet.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, feeling his throat constrict. He would not cry in front of Stiles, not like this. “I can’t keep– sex means more to me than this. I can’t just be someone’s toy to take their frustrations out on.”

Stiles stood, staring at Derek with wide eyes as he continued.

“And I get that you’re, like, afraid of relationships or just don’t want one or something, so I’m not going to try to trap you into one, I just.. can’t do this.” He gestured between them before brushing past him, fumbling the door open before Stiles could even speak.

Derek made his way quickly down the steel stairs, listening to the pounding of his feet. By the time he reached the Camaro, tears streamed down his cheeks, and he gripped the steering wheel to stop himself from shaking. The ride home felt impossible, but he made it.

That night, Derek drank himself stupid and fell into bed, the overwhelming feeling of just wanting to forget overtaking him.

It was three weeks before he heard a word from Stiles. Derek avoided his friends, didn’t tell them what was going on, and from what he could tell, Stiles was doing the same. That said, Stiles was always distant from the others, so it wasn’t unfamiliar to not hear from him for a week or two. Derek, however, was a lot more invested in his friends than that. So when Boyd called and told him that they were going out whether he liked it or not, he conceded and just let it happen. The same club that he and Stiles had escaped to the bathrooms of on multiple occasions. Derek chose to ignore that detail.

He ordered vodka over ice, figuring that if he was going to be there, he might as well get a little drunk. It wasn’t long before he let Boyd shove him to the dance floor, and it was only moments after that that he was pressed between two sweat-slicked bodies, and once he’d finished his drink, he let his inhibitions begin to fall. At some point or another, his shirt was tugged off, and he pressed back against the hard chest of the man behind him, using his free hand to pull the other up in front of him by the waistband of his pants. The firm grip on his body felt incredible, because he didn’t have expectations for this. This was drunken abandon, bodies sliding against one another as they danced, the heavy bass of the electronic music vibrating up through Derek’s legs and chest. There was a hand plastered to his abdomen, another gripping his shoulder, and maybe he wouldn’t admit it in the morning, but he loved it.

It was with two unbelievably hot men pressed up and grinding against him, head thrown back against one’s shoulder, that he spotted Stiles. For whatever reason, maybe just to see if he could actually get Stiles to react to something, Derek pulled them both in tighter, rocking his body against them both. When Stiles finally looked over, he was holding a condensation-coated glass, and the way his mouth fell open let Derek know that he’d finally gotten a reaction. He smirked very slightly, returning his attention to his dance partners as he felt their breath against his neck. Derek couldn’t tell when one song ended or another started, but it had to be easily ten minutes before he felt a new, familiar hand on his shoulder.

Stiles didn’t say a word as he pulled Derek from between the two others, grabbing him by the arms. And, sure, they started dancing, but Stiles was possessive, hands pressed low on Derek’s back and holding him close. Derek stared past Stiles, over his shoulder at the wall, but he ran his hands up and down Stiles’ arms just to make it at least look like there was nothing wrong. They stayed like that for a few moments, grinding filthily amid the bodies pressed tight around them.

“What the hell, Derek?” Stiles asked finally, turning his head just enough to look at him. Derek kept his eyes focused away, though one of his eyebrows arched slightly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m up to speed on what’s upsetting you,” he said calmly.

And that, apparently, was not what Stiles wanted to hear, because before Derek knew it, Stiles was tugging him off of the dance floor, pulling him through the throngs of people in the crowded club. It wasn’t until Stiles had slammed a door and they were out in a dark, cold alley that he finally stopped and looked at Derek. Derek stared back expectantly, mouth open in surprise as Stiles’ eyes searched his face. For the first time, he actually looked like he was feeling an emotion that wasn’t lust or indifference.

“What’s upsetting me? Derek, you walked out on--”

“Walked out on you? _I_ walked out on you? That’s hilarious, Stiles, because you made it very clear what I was to you. We weren’t together. You know what I was to you, and you made that completely evident. I was a booty call. And that’s that.”

Stiles stared at him, mouth hanging open momentarily. “And, what? You didn’t want that? You could’ve told me that, instead of making me feel like I was using you!”

“Were you not using me, Stiles? Was that not exactly what the fuck you were doing when you called me the nights you were too stressed to calm down? I was stress relief, Stiles, where do you get the right to be jealous?”

“Jealous? You think I’m jealous of those–” Stiles cut himself off, then, head shaking for a moment.

Derek watched him swallow his anger, shut it all down again, and before he could speak again, Derek held a hand up. Quietly, he said, “You know what, Stiles? It’s fine. Forget I ever said anything, okay? Because you can’t even talk to me. And I don’t want to be anywhere near someone, romantically or sexually, when they can’t even tell me how they feel.”

That seemed to hit Stiles, because he paused, looking at Derek with his big, stupidly innocent brown eyes, and for a moment, he said nothing. “Is that what was wrong? That I wasn’t talking to you?”

“Oh, my God, are you still not getting this? I never meant to, but I really fucking like you, Stiles, okay? And I hate myself for liking you, because all you’ve ever wanted me for has been sex. And I was fine with it at first, you know? I figured, you’re hot, I like sex, whatever. But then I actually spent a little bit of time with you, with our friends, and I developed feelings for you–”

“Feelings for me?” Stiles’ head tilted slightly, and slowly, he leaned back, taking in Derek’s face. “And you’re upset because you think I don’t have feelings for you?”

“Yes, Stiles, that’s exactly it. Congratulations on understanding precisely what I’ve just told you.”

“Derek, I’m sorry,” Stiles said slowly, giving a shake of his head. “I didn’t think you– I do like you, I just didn’t think you wanted a relationship. And I don’t have a problem with casual sex, you know? So I just didn’t really see… the big deal.”

“What do I– you. Do you want to be with me?” Derek asked carefully, and when Stiles nodded, Derek’s face broke into a slow smile. Stiles launched himself at Derek, throwing his arms around his neck.

“I never kissed you on the mouth because I didn’t want either of us to get too attached. God, Derek, I’m sorry for making you feel that way,” he whispered, holding him tightly.

Derek didn’t answer, just held him close and pressed his face into Stiles’ shoulder. It felt like hours before he finally said anything, and even then, it was just, “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“I know,” Stiles laughed, shaking his head. “But, hey, this means I can take you on a date now, right?”

Two weeks later, Stiles and Derek’s first date ended with a twenty-minute kiss outside of Derek’s apartment door that ended when his neighbors drunkenly stumbled past.

“I’ll call you,” Stiles said softly as they separated, cupping Derek’s face in his hands.

“I’ll wait with bated breath,” was Derek’s simple, quiet reply, followed by a gentle laugh. Stiles gave his shoulder a little push, pointing toward the door.

“Go inside, dork.”

It was three more weeks before they slept together again, and Derek didn’t feel guilty about it anymore. And Stiles was gentle, and however much Derek hated being sappy, he finally understood why people referred to it as ‘making love’. When they were done, Stiles pressed up against his back, one hand splayed flat on Derek’s stomach to hold him close. He kissed along his shoulder and neck, fingertips stroking his skin slowly. He whispered praises into Derek’s ear, and right before he fell asleep, he said it.

“I love you.” And it was breathy, and tired, and Derek just squeezed Stiles’ hand, bringing his knuckles up to his lips to kiss them softly. “I love you, too,” wasn’t heard, and it didn’t need to be. Instead of saying anything more, they slept like that, Stiles’ nose pressed against the back of Derek’s neck. 

**Author's Note:**

> So larryberry2 is the only reason I write consistently & the only reason I've decided to start putting things up here. I suppose we all owe her some thanks for that!


End file.
